


Common

by Onlymystory



Series: The Boy who Fought with Wolves [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Demon!Stiles, Demons, M/M, Pack Feels, Witches, blodrod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 15:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onlymystory/pseuds/Onlymystory
Summary: He’s a rumor among the darkest and dangerous corners of the supernatural world. The human who whispers in blood. A demon’s nightmare wrapped in flannel shirts and a mind that moves faster than a wikipedia rabbit hole.Don’t go to Beacon Hills, they say. Nothing’s worth it. Whatever the rumors of power in the Nemeton, the ley lines, the ancestral forests...he’ll find you.There’s a demon who won’t leave hell anymore. Burrowed back to the seventh circle the moment his chains were broken. He, like others, tell the same story. If you’re very, very lucky, you’ll just end up dead after challenging the Beacon Hills pack. If he’s bored...well, the dark creatures know the stories. Stiles, the blodrød of Beacon Hills, doesn't give up his toys.





	Common

**Author's Note:**

> Um, somehow a nice comment on the second story in this series and my current obsession with Zayn's "Common" led to this. First fic I've written in almost 3 years. So be nice, please. 
> 
> Warnings include very brief throat cutting (no one dies), torture of evil witches, demon!stiles, and the kidnapping of children.

He’s a rumor among the darkest and dangerous corners of the supernatural world. The human who whispers in blood. A demon’s nightmare wrapped in flannel shirts and a mind that moves faster than a wikipedia rabbit hole. 

Don’t go to Beacon Hills, they say. Nothing’s worth it. Whatever the rumors of power in the Nemeton, the ley lines, the ancestral forests...he’ll find you. 

There’s a demon who won’t leave hell anymore. Burrowed back to the seventh circle the moment his chains were broken. He, like others, tell the same story. If you’re very, very lucky, you’ll just end up dead after challenging the Beacon Hills pack. If he’s bored...well, the dark creatures know the stories. Stiles, the  blodrød of Beacon Hills, has a special penchant for playing with his toys for years on end. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The funny thing about the supernatural world is that there are levels of knowledge and rumors and it’s usually the darkest and lightest creatures that hear the truest stories. Those of light prefer to deal in truth and so you just don’t hear casual rumors. You glean information. That a lost soul can find a home in a little town in Northern California. That if you need a negotiation, particularly mediated by someone with detailed knowledge of the rules and legalities of your world, who’s focus is on fairness over power, you call on the huntress and the banshee and the seconds of the Beacon Hills pack. The true alpha shows up for last rites whether you’ve sent word or not, his power enough to bring eternal peace to those worthy of it. 

And so when the pure and true creatures of fantasy speak of Beacon Hills and its pack, they speak of them with honor. And with no malice or gossip in their tone, they’ll carefully warn that its best to be pure of heart when approaching, because behind the generosity are claws of steel and dangers its best not to speak of. 

The darkest of their world, the djinns and the goblins and the demons...these love their nightmarish stories. Weave an outlandish tale of fear and torment all night long. But some stories are whispered over quickly. Best not to dwell for too long. A basilisk in a hidden chamber in a secret land. The need to take a route far outside of Canosa. A corner of hell where Mother rests. Vetala cemeteries where no one should bury their dead. And the blodrød of Beacon Hills, from whom freedom is granted rarely and mercy even less. 

But most of the supernatural world lives somewhere in the middle. In the world of power. Light creatures don’t seek power, but knowledge and balance. Dark creatures want vengeance and pain and pleasure within evil. 

It’s the common creatures, the ones who haven’t fell out of myth, that tend to try their hand at Beacon Hills after all. The vampires and werewolves, the dryads and elves, the fae and the witches. These are the ones who tend to believe they’re the one with the right power, the right skill set to take over the riches of Beacon Hills. 

These are the ones who don’t heed the rumors they hear. It’s a mistake they keep making. And the Midwestern coven with goals of drawing on the Nemeton’s power are just another about to join the list. 

~ ~ ~` ~ ~ ~

“The Sisters of the Plains skipped another meeting,” sighs Allison, the exasperation in her voice clearly evident. 

“That’s the second in a row and third overall,” notes Derek. 

Allison nods. “I know. And two more kids went missing last night. Have Isaac, Stiles, and Braeden learned anything yet from their investigation?”

Derek shakes his head. 

Scott frowns and starts pacing. “I don’t like this at all. The Sisters had references to insure their behavior and assurances that they were only here to study and learn peacefully from the power that lies in Beacon Hills. Instead they refuse to meet with any of us, are derisive when they do, and children are missing. The southern ley line was upset two nights ago. It took most of the night for Danny to soothe it.”

“It’s not the first time we’ve been lied to,” says Erica. She says it cautiously though, aware of Scott’s frustration. He has more patience with those who come in and flat out declare war then on those who deal in deception. 

“I know,” growls Scott and his eyes flash red as he paces. 

The coven had been in town for about four weeks with no issues. They were quiet and presented papers from the Louisiana branch of the Filles de la Lune, reassuring the Beacon Hills pack that this was a safe coven to allow in. Then, on the night of the new moon, the ley lines shook ferociously and the Nemeton shrieked so loudly that Scott, Lydia, and Derek, the three most bound to it, were viscerally awoken. 

The Sisters of the Plains made excuses, they didn’t realize the ritual of the Plains would be disruptive, but that of course they should have considered the differences and were of course apologetic. 

After twelve years of running Beacon Hills, none of the pack believed them. But over the next few weeks, nothing beyond the unhappiness of the land’s magic arose. It would be 21 days exactly before the first report of a missing child came through. 

Sheriff Stilinski passed it on immediately. The boy was of a local dryad family, supposedly unknown to any but the pack. His sister disappeared seven days later. 

Scott’s reaction was swift. The coven was called to meet with himself, Derek, and Allison. Isaac, Braeden, and Stiles were sent to investigate. First the Black Hills from whence the sisters hailed and then to the Lousiana sorcieres, to learn what such a recommendation meant. If the Filles de la Lune were declaring war with a sort of scout coven, they needed to know. 

In the week the others had been gone--cell phone free due to the need to pass through a land of will-o-the-wisps--a dozen kids had gone missing. Equally worrying was the shakiness of the ley lines and the way it was keeping the pack up at all hours. 

“Who went missing this time?” asks Scott. 

“Astrid and Alaric.”

“The vampire twins? They’re teenagers.”

Derek nods, his face grim. “Just like the naiad’s boy and the fae prince.” 

“That’s 20, right?” questions Erica. “Why 20? Why these kids? We’re missing something.” 

There’s a scuffling sound from outside and they move to the door to see Isaac and Braeden stepping out of a fae portal. Stiles lingers to speak with Titania, bowing low over her hand. Allison and Derek exchange concerned looks. That can only mean he’s made the fae queen a solemn vow and Stiles makes no habit of such gestures. 

Once they’re all inside, Scott begins the questions. “What did you find? Are the Filles declaring war?”

Braeden’s eyes fill with tears. “The Filles de la Lune are dead.” 

“All…?” begins Lydia, her voice trailing away. 

Isaac’s voice is steel. “All. Most of the coven was killed as soon as they wrote their letters of safe passage. Under intense duress of course. The Sisters took the youngest daughters as hostages to insure their cooperation. The daughters were ritually sacrificed afterwards.”

Stiles continues the tale. “We learned that during the three years the Sisters lived in the Black Hills, 14 children were taken and later found dead. The locals weren’t a fan of talking to us, but we were able to learn that all died in a ritualistic form. We need to take care of this miserable coven.”

“I agree,” replies Scott. “And quickly. But we need to know their goal. They missed something in the Black Hills. There’s a Nemeton there, so why wouldn’t they have stayed if whatever they’re doing worked?”

“The Nemeton there is rotted and decayed,” answers Isaac. “Whatever they did corrupted it, but wasn’t enough to sustain it.”

“So why these kids?” asks Lydia. “What don’t we know?”

“It’s sevens,” says Boyd, looking up from his pile of research. “The Sisters of the Plains need three groups of sevens to complete their ritual. That’s who they took. Here, look at the mythical classification of each one who was taken.” He pushed over key pages for the pack to look at. 

Stiles sees it first. “Seven who are magic by birth, seven by force, and seven by strength.”

“That sort of power well could give them control over not just this Nemeton, but all connected by the ley lines,” notes Lydia. 

“There’s just one problem,” interjects Jackson. “They only have 20. They’re missing the seventh by strength.”

Stiles and Derek turn in unison to Scott. “A true alpha. The purest of those who achieve their status by sheer strength of will and purity of heart.”

“So we stop them before they can use me,” says Scott firmly. 

Stiles shakes his head, a nasty grin forming on his lips. “Oh no, we’re going to make sure they get you.”

“We are?”

“Oh yes. More importantly, we’re going to make sure they use you first,” says Stiles. His voice has a singsong tone now, the chilling lilt that he gets when his blodrød side can sense it’s about to get to play, the cadence that sends shivers down the spines of everyone in the pack. 

Derek of course, is more than a little turned on. The blodrød worries him, but there’s also a tradition of fairly phenomenal sex whenever Stiles taps into his darker nature. He’s come to peace with it over the years. 

And thus the planning begins. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Their plans come together over the new moon. Scott has been “kidnapped” after a carefully leaked rumor of illness among certain pack members and a fabricated opportunity was presented to the Sisters. 

While the pack always knew they would win--its what they do after all--they had been worried about casualties. Still were to be fair. Stiles accessing the blodrød within insured a vicious victory, but sometimes his timing could be circumspect. 

Still, he’s assured them all that he knows exactly what he’s doing this time around and the others have learned to trust him. The one time they didn’t, he sought to protect the pack from the doubtful and it was only the fact Stiles went after Scott that there was enough humanity present for them to convince Stiles that Scott wasn’t the true enemy. 

When the pack roared into the clearing, they saw the Sisters of the Plains gathered in a triquetra. Fourteen witches stood at the points and intersections, each with a bound child of magic by birth or force in front of them, a bone blade held to their throats. The inner circle was formed by the eldest Sisters, reflecting the others, but holding hostage those of strength. In the center stood the High Priestess, Scott kneeling at her feet. 

Allison watched nervously, Stiles had warned her that it would likely be a frightening moment but that she had to trust him for this to work. 

The High Priestess chanted and fire burst from the earth to form the lines of the triquetra, linking the entire coven. Lydia’s translation spell worked brilliantly, translating the words the priestess spoke. 

> _ “Travelers with hearts weary, _
> 
> _ Let you not see clearly, _
> 
> _ Follow the beacon of the hill, _
> 
> _ Let the Nemeton your bones chill. _
> 
> _ Give us your power for our light, _
> 
> _ We seek the magic of the night. _
> 
> _ Wander no more, travelers galore.” _

The High Priestess’s eyes turn black as night for the briefest moment and every supernatural with advanced senses can hear Stiles’ low laugh. “Oh you made a deal with the wrong devil,” he whispers. 

The High Priestess looms over Scott as she speaks out. “Sisters! We gather tonight to finally gain access to the power of the land. This power will bring us many travelers and we will feast on the power of their deaths for untold years. We have each drunk from our chalice, mixed with a drop of blood from each sacrifice here tonight. Now, with the blood of the true alpha, I access the power of the Nemeton. When his blood spills into the flames, take your own sacrifices and speak our words of power.”

Derek sits uneasy. As proclamations go, its one of the better ones he’s heard. Simple, with clear direction, and not a lot of excess ritual. But he also knows what Stiles said, and he knows he’s missing something. 

The High Priestess, Ganna, brings her blade to Scott’s throat and slices deep. Several of the pack can’t hold back their gasp, though they keep it quiet. Scott’s head tilts forward, the blood falling, and for a moment their faith vanishes. 

Then Scott’s body stops falling. His blood hovers in midair, every drop coming together as if magnetized, rushing like a backwards waterfall into his throat. Even as his head raises, his healing kicks in, and his throat closes. 

And Stiles steps into the light of the flames. 

“You dare to try and stop us!” The High Priestess remains indignant in her rage. She is certain of her power. 

Stiles smiles. Slowly. Dangerously. “You didn’t listen to the warnings of Beacon Hills, did you, grandmother?”

Ganna stills, a barely noticeable movement before she recovers. “Sisters” she screams. “Take them!”

Stiles merely twists his fingers. The witches stop, their hands and blades frozen at the throat of the children. “No, I don’t think so, sweetheart.” The hands pull away, moving from the throats of the children to hover at the witches’ own throats. “Derek, if you and the others don’t mind,” he continues, that devilish cadence still in his tone. 

Derek and the pack hurry in, unbinding the children. Those who can run do, to the outskirts of the clearing. Those too young are held as they’re pulled out of the triquetra’s magical reach. None of them leave the sight, mesmerized by Stiles’ power. 

“How,” breathes Ganna, her voice a whisper of fury. 

“The power of the blodrød,” replies Stiles, leering at her. “I control blood.”

“You must have access to the blood first,” she screams back. “These families would never have granted you such power over them.” 

“Oh they didn’t,” says Stiles, in what is probably supposed to be a reassuring tone. “But you needed a connection to all of their blood for your ritual. A step we easily deduced. You even needed the blood of a true alpha. And the blood of my alphas, the blood of my pack...oh that sings in my veins. You connected them to me. And in so doing, in so drinking, connected your coven to me as well. So now it’s my turn to play.”

He turns from watching Ganna to look at the coven. “What to do, what to do,” he mutters, before his eyes light up in bloody red, his lips darkening as blood rushes. Stiles bites at his finger, sucking at the blood that appears and smiles. “Oh yes, that will do nicely.” 

He motions and the witches’ hands push into their throats, pricking each just enough for a drop of blood to form on the blade. As everyone watches, the drop slides along the blade towards their hands. When it reaches their fingertips, the drops gleam as those on fire and a quick flick of Stiles’ fingers sends the drops down the throats of each coven member, with the exception of Ganna. The witches scream in agony, their bodies still frozen, and the smell of burnt flesh fills the air. After several moments of this, while Stiles grins to himself, the flaming droplets emerge from the lips of each witch. 

The witches fall to the ground, each dead in an instant. The drops gather to form a circle of fire, dripping in blood, that floats in the air at Stiles’ direction and settles around the ground at Ganna’s feet. 

“Ganna, my dear,” says Stiles. “You should have told your patron to listen to the legends of the demons. There are a few of us that even she cannot overcome.” 

Ganna’s eyes shine black and a guttural voice rolls from her lips. “I have a right to travelers, to torture and take their power.”

“Indeed you do, onibaba,” answers Stiles. “To those who stumble upon your home.” His voice is steel. The bloody flames rise higher. “You do not have a right to subvert a beacon, to tease and tempt and call travelers to you. And you do not have a right to my home. As such, I sentence you to be bound to your ancestral home for an eternity and a tomorrow.”

There’s a gravely moan at that. It’s a sentence that has no end, for though eternities may pass, tomorrow never comes. 

“You shall have no temptation upon your lands. A traveler must seek you out for you to feed from them, you shall have no strays.” 

As the promise of Stiles’ sentencing fills the air, the flames rise to whip around Ganna. The face of the high priestess vanishes, leaving a yokai demon in its place, and the flames seal around her arms in bloody chains. 

“Go back to your hell,” declares Stiles. The onibaba vanishes and Ganna falls, dead as her coven. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Two days later, Stiles and Derek emerge from their bedroom, the pack rolling their eyes. While they worked through Stiles’ blodrød awakened passions, (a nice way of saying Stiles and Derek were fucking each others’ brains out and then some), the families of the kidnapped children had come together to dispose of the coven’s bodies. Through fae ritual, the deadly powers of the coven were destroyed and the pure, stolen powers were woven back into the earth. 

“Well that was different,” sighs Scott. “Can we not do that for a while?”

“I enjoyed it,” says Stiles. “That was some of the most fun I’ve had in ages. You guys never let me play.”

“You’re creepy,” declares Jackson. “And I was once a murderous lizard.”

“Whatever.” Stiles leans over and kisses Derek, lingering longer than anyone is comfortable. “I suppose eventually someone else will think they can beat a blodrød. I’ll have fun then.” 

He doesn’t bother mentioning that the binds he created allow him access not just to the onibaba who came to Beacon Hills, but to all yokai demons. He’s been bored since he let that last demon go. Better to exercise his blodrød side in secret. 

Where the pack is concerned, he’ll stick to exercising his passions through Derek. “Speaking of which,” says Stiles, as though any of the pack could hear his thoughts, “we just came out for food. Derek, shall we?”

Scott laughs. “You really are amazing, Stiles. You help make us special.”

Stiles grins, bright and happy at Scott and the rest of the pack. “Nothing common ‘bout us.”

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of mixed and matched a lot of mythology here. As a reminder, a blodrod does not exist in mythology. I made it up. An onibaba is a type of yokai demon that preys on travelers. I just played with the idea that it wanted to access a beacon to pull travelers to it in order to gain more power, but by breaking the rules of its own mythology, was weak enough to be consumed/controlled by a more powerful demon. Aka Stiles.


End file.
